‘I have indeed, Alaric, I have indeed. You know I once wrote a whole book on Germania and her people? Fascinating.’
I paused, unsure whether the old man was either mocking me or just buying time. I thought then of the two men that had left via the gate, how much time did I have? ‘Why,’ I said again, ‘do you want me dead so badly?’
‘Very well,’ Tacitus said, holding up a hand in defeat, ‘I shall tell you what you want to know, although you will not like what I have to say. I am just sorry I will not be there to see your downfall, Alaric, for I feel it will be a story all of its own.’
He padded past me on soft feet to a small side table in the opposite corner of the room. He poured himself a small cup of wine without offering any to me, and then reached into his robe and produced a small leather bottle that hung from a length of string around his neck. He opened the bottle and poured its content into his wine. ‘The things you have to do when you reach my age,’ he said, motioning to the cup. ‘Anyway, where exactly would you like me to start?’
‘At the beginning,’ I said. Tacitus moved back past me and returned to his seat behind his desk.
‘Very well, young man. I am a senator of Rome, as I have already mentioned. I once sat at the side of the great Trajan, although my first consulship was during the short reign of Nerva. I married the daughter of the great Julius Agricola, the conqueror of Britannia, and held a proconsular rank myself as Governor of Asia. But it is as a writer and an orator that I have carved my fame. Go to Rome, ask anyone who sits on benches of the senate, they will tell you they know me. Alas, that now all seems to be in the past. Now I am nothing more than a puppet master, trying to keep the Pax Romana alive across our northern border.
I control the frumentarii agents that operate in Germania, and have done for some ten years now. From here I read their reports and proposals, naming a king here, changing a chief there, all to keep the tribes focused on each other, and not on rebellion, of course.’
I scowled at this and made to speak, but Tacitus shut me off with a raised hand.
‘You knew very well the game we play, Alaric, let us not pretend otherwise. It is a game that was begun long before we were both born, and it will still be being played when we are nothing but dust. Now, in recent years I have been receiving more and more concerning reports about a man thwarting our plans. We place a new chief in a tribe, a week passes and that chief is killed, his tribe swallowed by another. We pitch two tribes against each other in war, and instead of destroying each other one tribe wipes out the other and becomes stronger. I could name more examples: cattle raids, raids against the empire herself, but I fear we would be here all day if I did. And do you know, Alaric, all these disturbing reports, all brought in by different agents, do you know who they all lead to?’
‘Me,’ I said with a savage grin.
‘You. You and your Ravensworn, as you like to call them, are a constant thorn in our side. Your meddling allows certain tribes to grow stronger, get bigger. Rome cannot allow one tribe to get too big, too powerful. It could undermine everything we have achieved thus far. You understand why, I presume?’
I shrugged. ‘You let one tribe get so strong it engulfs the others, then before you know it you have another empire in the making knocking on your door. As it stands all you have is a collection of individuals that all hate each other as much as they hate you. Only if the tribes unite can they pose a real threat to Rome.’
‘Precisely, dear Alaric, spot on. Now can you see how your meddling has caused us a few issues over the years? Why just look at The Marcomanni and the Quadi and how powerful they have become. You had no small part to play in that.’
I shrugged again. ‘I work for whoever pays the most,’ I said. ‘Never concerned myself too much with the outcome.’
Tacitus chuckled, and swirled his wine cup. ‘I do like an honest man. Now, up to about this time last year we were prepared to leave you be, you do after all only command five hundred men, and therefore pose no real threat to the empire itself. But we were approached by someone, someone you know, someone close to you, and asked if we could assist in bringing about your downfall. It was an interesting proposition, one I was not prepared to let go.’
‘Who?’ I asked urgently. Someone close to me? ‘Who was it?’
Tacitus did not reply at first, he just smiled and drained his cup in one. ‘Now, that is the question,’ he said, wincing as the wine regurgitated on him. ‘Someone long forgotten, someone who shares your blood. She will be your doom, Alaric, not I, not Rome.’
I wanted to grab him then and shake him till he stopped his riddles and gave me the answers I so badly needed. But, I never had the chance. I realised all too late that the small leather bottle Tacitus had emptied into his wine must have been poison, as the old man spewed vomit over the flagstones and fell the floor in a heap. He shuddered for a short while, writhing, white foam bubbling at the corners of his mouth.
And then he passed from this world.
TWENTY-THREE
I walk through a small town. Children dart around my knees, entangled in a frantic game of tag. The smell of fish oil is strong on my nostrils, causing a burning sensation as the rank smell invades my senses. I can taste it on my tongue, its presence so strong on the air it makes my eyes burn. I blink back tears and try not to think of the lake by my father’s farm, the one he had thrust me in and watched as I writhed and flapped in the endless blue. I used to love fish as a child, but since that horrid day anything to do with water just brings back the pain of betrayal I felt as I slowly drowned, sinking into the silent depth of my doom.
It was autumn when I left, and now the first signs of spring are in the air. It has been a tough winter. Scrounging and stealing food, sneaking into barns after nightfall and praying to the gods the owner doesn’t appear at the threshold with a drawn blade and send me on my way.
Every morning I start with the resolve that this day will make me stronger. Each night I lie on a cold, hard bed and cry for the loss of a mother taken before her time. I wonder how my father is, if he has been able to survive a lonely winter without the comfort of his wife or only son to keep his hearth roaring and stomach full. Thoughts of him turn my mood to ash; my eyes harden and my resolve doubles. Whatever the fates have instore for me, I will not go grovelling back to that bastard. I will not set foot on that lonely farm and admit that I was wrong, that I am too weak to survive on my own. He is dead to me.
There is a commotion to my front, people streaming past me, forming a giant crowd on the edge of something I can’t see. More people rush past, their breath steams the air with their excited gasps and shouts. I push forwards, barging my way through the throng. I’m forced to a standstill and result to craning my neck over the bobbing heads, trying to catch a glimpse of what has caused the excitement.
I see nothing, but the people at the front of the crowd appear to be looking down. I stare around in confusion. Atop the streets of mud and debris there is a collection of huts. Up the top of the hill to my right is a great hall; they say that is where the king lives. The Marcomanni are a big tribe, and their king rules over a great swathe of land on the Danube border with Rome. All winter it has taken me to get here; I am disappointed to find it is not what I expected. Where are the great buildings, the flagstone roads and high walled towns they talk of in the north? The tribes on the shores of the great grey sea talk of the Marcomanni as if they are legends of old. A tribe taking the fight to Rome, standing their ground and even forcing the emperor to pay them off with chests of silver. I see no evidence of such wealth. When I look back to the front the crowd has begun to disperse. I move forwards, squinting my eyes in my eagerness to catch a first glimpse of whatever has gripped the population.
A pit. At least eight feet in depth, four mud walls forming a near perfect square. There are two men within, one is standing, drinking greedily from a jug of ale. The other is dead. My eyes widen as I take in the spectacle; two men are in a pit, and they have just fought to t
he death.
The victor is a big man, young, looks to be about my own age. He has a great mane of red hair and a bushy beard clotted with blood. His eyes are dark and ferocious, his nose wide and flat. The man on the floor is bigger still, broad and powerful. At least he was. There is a gaping hole in his stomach, half his guts splattered on the floor. Blood still oozes from the horrific wound, thick and black like a snake slithering from a dark cave. I stare in awe and disgust. Why would two men choose to do this? What possible purpose could there be? I’m no coward, not like my bastard of a father. But when I choose to fight it will be for honour, for glory. Not for coin or the enjoyment of a town of bloodthirsty peasants.
‘Balomar, hey blacksmith, you hear me?’ The red haired man looks up, ale dripping down his beard. ‘Here’s your winnings, low life.’ The speaker throws a small bag into the pit. It chinks as it hits the floor. ‘The king says you are to fight again tomorrow, and not to win so quickly this time. You’re meant to be the entertainment, ain’t no one entertained by a fight that’s over before it’s got started.’ And with that the speaker walks off, lost in the crowd.
The man named Balomar bends down and picks up the small bag, weighing it in his palm. I’m still watching him when his head jerks up and his dark eyes pour into mine. There is a challenge there, visceral and violent. I snap my own away so as to avoid any confrontation. They are drawn to the body on the ground, the giant death wound in the torso. I look into the dead mans face, trying to get a measure of the man he was. I nearly yelp when his eyes snap open and his lips mouth the word, ‘help.’
With the deed done I crossed the river by paying a fisherman for use of his boat with the money I had taken from Tacitus’ purse – I figured he would have no more need of it – and went in search of my men. It felt an age since I had left them on the battlefield valiantly holding off wave after wave of Roman attacks. I met Ruric at the edge of a thick forest, we clasped arms and as I went to move back from the embrace his grip tightened on my wrist. ‘We lost men, Alaric. A lot of men.’
He let go and as I stepped back I saw the pain in his eyes. He hated me. Right then, in the shade of those trees, he hated me for the loss of those men. For the pain they went through as they hunched behind their shields and stood against the inexorable tide of the Fourteenth legion. A twang of guilt hit my heart like a spear point. Ruric had been with me since the beginning. I had been nothing when I met him, just a lone traveller wandering the land. I fought the odd battle in the pits the tribes make. Men made wagers on me losing; I could hear them jest and laugh as they pointed, wondering how many rounds I would last till I was speared in the guts or lacerated with a blade. I proved them all wrong, every single one of them.
It had been Ruric who had first sworn his loyalty to me, Ruric who had installed the belief in me that I could change the fate the Norns had woven and lead men into battle. I saw the fire in his eyes then, streaks of red where there should have been white. Some wounds men take to the body, others they take to their soul. I had wounded Ruric, a wound that could not be cured by any surgeon from Rome, or any priest from the sacred groves in Germania. I had betrayed him, betrayed my men, just to get my vengeance.
‘What happened?’ I asked in a small voice.
Ruric hung his head and shook it from side to side. He had a great bruise on his crown, visible through his thinning hair. ‘They broke through,’ he said. He sighed, tears welled and then his breath came in shuddering gasps as he fought to hold the tears back. ‘They broke through,’ he repeated. ‘It was carnage. Murder. Horrible.’ After some probing I learnt the second cohort had succeeded where the first had failed and forced a hole in the centre of our line. Adalhard’s Hundred had fought valiantly, according to Ruric. Wave after wave of attack they had beat off, but it had been Adalhard himself who had caused their downfall. ‘He fell for the feint,’ Ruric said, his voice had steadied now. ‘The second retreated, appearing to be in disarray. You know the old trick, pretend to run away, then when your enemy break ranks form back up and charge them. They formed a wedge, a boars snout, as we would call it. It tore our men to shreds.’
I could picture it, clear as I could see Ruric’s slumping form in front of my eyes. Adalhard whirling his sword above his head, screaming his battle cry as he saw his enemy falter and stagger from him. His men, their blood up, joining in with the frenzy and leaving the safety of the shield wall for an all out charge. Oh, the glory, the glee of seeing the backs of your foe. I could see the triumphant glint in Adalhard’s eye as he charged, his eyes lit up with the silver his battle fame would inevitably gain him. I could picture his smug face as he stood before me and regaled the tale of his heroism, his gallantry in battle. How his men would have cheered when I honoured their captain. ‘Who else will lead us when old Alaric is gone?’ they would say over the rim of their cups. Surely the Gods had blessed them to be serving in the great Adalhard’s Hundred?
‘He dead?’ I asked in a gruff voice. Ruric nodded, he did not have the words to reply. I clasped Ruric’s shoulder, gripping it tight. ‘It’s not your fault, old friend,’ I said, lowering myself so my eyes were level with his. He was sitting now, hugging his knees.
With a start he rose to his feet, throwing my hand from his. ‘Is that what you think is wrong with me?!’ he roared, as ferocious as any lion in the amphitheatres across the empire. ‘You think I blame myself for his death, his and so many others?’
I took an involuntary step back, for Ruric was a dangerous man. I am skilled with a sword, a deadly foe in combat. But I would not choose to cross blades with Ruric, no matter how old he had become.
‘If Adalhard broke ranks then the blame lies with him,’ I said. I hated the defensive tone I used.
‘The blame lies with you Alaric!’ Ruric roared in my face. ‘You! You who left us on the battlefield, you who abandoned your men to their deaths so you could scamper off and seek some sort of petty vengeance. Those were your men, not Adalhard’s, yours. They fight for you, take your coin and swear their loyalty to you.’ He stopped, his chest heaving. It seemed he had run out of anger, or was at least too exhausted to carry on.
‘How many men did we lose?’ I asked in a shamed whisper.
‘One hundred and twenty,’ Ruric spat. ‘You lost one hundred and twenty.’
I felt a great weight come crashing down on me, as the force of the truth Ruric spoke struck me true. When had I become so blind, so selfish? For years I had known men followed me because they knew I was one of them. Come from nothing, born to no king or war chief. A new resolve washed over me. Never again will I put my interests above those of the Ravensworn. Never again will I leave my men to the iron storm whilst I scamper away and see to my own ends. I would change, become the leader they deserve.
I staggered away from the shadows, into the glorious light of the summer sun. It did nothing to rid the chill that ran down my spine, or stop my shaking hands. I slumped to the ground, thoughts of my long-lost mother filing my mind. She would be so ashamed, embarrassed, to see the man I had become. My father would have understood, and that thought just enraged me all the more.
A commotion stirred me from my dark thoughts. There was the thud of hoofbeats and the clinking of armour as a man rode up to me. Turning I saw he wore the colours of the Suebi, and his long hair was tied in a top knot as was their fashion. ‘Lord Alaric,’ he said as he dismounted without ceremony. ‘I come baring dark tidings.’ Dark tidings? I thought, surely things could not possibly get any worse.
‘Speak your message,’ I said.
‘Warin has murdered king Agnarr and claimed the throne of the Suebi. He has captured your wife and put a ransom on your head. People say he is colluding with Rome.’
‘Your doom will come not from Rome, Alaric of the Ravensworn. But from where you least expect it.’ Tacitus’ words ran through me, the shiver in my back turned to stone cold ice.
‘Saxa? My son?’ I asked, not wanting to hear the answer.
‘Alive and well, when I le
ft. There are men in the Suebi who would fight for you, lord. They have no loyalty to this Warin, see him for the Nithing he is.’ I nodded, trying to regain my composure.
‘You come from these men?’
‘I do. I also send greetings from Chief Ketill of the Harii, who is still camped nearby with his men. He urges you to come north with all haste. With luck, we may be in time to save your wife and children.’
I turned from the messenger, looking over the faces of my men that had gathered to hear the news. The fierce expressions I had seen when I first met with them earlier had evaporated with the morning dew. There was a softness there now, sympathy mixed with resolve. They would follow me, I knew it in my bones. I thought there no serious danger to Saxa, who was Warin’s sister after all. But my son could be seen as expendable by the new king of the Suebi. And then something occurred to me. ‘Children. You said children?’
‘Why, yes lord,’ the messenger said, his eyebrows raised. ‘Your wife, lord, the lady Saxa, is pregnant.’
TWENTY-FOUR
I was a whirlwind of emotion as we rode north at the gallop. ‘Why, yes lord. Your wife, the lady Saxa, is pregnant.’ I could not get my head around it. She had only just given birth to Ludwig, how could she possibly be with child again? Just once we had lain together as man and wife since the birth; it had been brief, and painful for her. Dark thoughts swirled within me, growing with every thump of Hilde’s hooves on the turf. Could the child really be mine? Had Saxa been disloyal whilst I had been away in the south? I thought of my wife then, the timid child I still thought of her as. I couldn’t bring myself to believe she would have summoned the courage to stray. Not to mention the ring of armed men that would have been surrounding her day and night. I had left twenty men to guard her and the child, so surely if one of them had thought she’d played me false they would have sent word.
Oathbreaker Page 14